


Waiting Days

by sanguiniel



Category: The Collector Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Light Dirty Talk, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 10:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20740523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguiniel/pseuds/sanguiniel
Summary: Sometimes the Collector comes to him with a different torture in mind.This is one of those times.





	Waiting Days

**Author's Note:**

> anyone else excited for the collected to come out?

The Collector presses in closer, implacable and unyielding in the face of Arkin's cries and threats. His breathing comes harsh over the back of Arkin's neck, gloves creaking where his fingers tightened. Nothing changes. 

Arkin breaks first (again, as usual, and it infuriates him at the same time it makes him feel like a failure).

"Just fucking do it you goddamn pervert-" The Collector slides in, both impatient and pleased, cutting off the end of what he's saying. Heat shudders inside him at the familiar pressure, his dick already starting to firm up against his will. Without consciously making the decision, he slams his head forward into the metal table in the tiny space he has left to move.

Clear pain bursts out from his nose and spreading to his temples all at once. It's sickeningly sharp and brings the by-now familiar iron of blood in his mouth. It's hard to tell if he’s broken anything when pain and blood are the norm. Arkin will take a wound by his own hand as a victory, something the Collector couldn't take first. Pink-bubbled saliva spools onto the table, winding out from the half grin that splits his face.

The Collector snatches a big hand over the back of his head in an instant, fingers digging in to show a fury the Collector won’t speak aloud. He grinds Arkin’s face into the metal, smearing blood and spit up his cheek. It makes his nose throb even more, but now Arkin knows for sure nothing is broken from the lack of grinding cartilage. 

He shifts to one hand clenched in his hair, forcing him into the table, the other like a brand on his hip. Like he's keeping him in place, like there aren't enough straps on this goddamn table in enough different spots to tie down anyone.

Arkin jerks his hands against them anyway, to remind the Collector who he's dealing with, to remind himself there's still fight in him. He isn't one of this freak's broken toys and he won't be one of the bodies left mangled in fallen down buildings or a trap-filled suburban house.

But these straps are thickly padded, and there isn't nearly enough bite in them to distract him away from everything else his body is feeling. The metal under his skin, half-warmed and then shockingly cold by measure when the Collector's thrusts jostle him into space his body wasn't touching. The sharp, angry gasps he's not managing to hold back on every push forward that nudges the tip of his cock into a tease of friction against the table.

The Collector's fingers tightened in his hair for a split second before turning gentle and relaxing in a way that set Arkin on edge. He brought his hand down, slow but firm so there wasn't a chance for Arkin to smash his face again. His fingers wrapped around the column of Arkin's throat, thumb coming to rest on the back of his neck and delicately brushing the ends of his hair where it had grown longer than Arkin was used to.

"You don't have to be upset because you like it," comes the whisper, hushed but audible between the Collector's fast breathing. His voice sounds soft, even under how it's lowered to be spoken directly into Arkin's ear. 

The shock of him talking should be information Arkin tucks away, to keep it close and burning in his head for the plans he makes alone at night, when he's bundled into his trunk and thinking of revenge. Rage blinds him, humiliation hot on its heels and strangling the building hiss in his throat when the Collector cuts him off again.

"You always get louder when it's good for you. I can tell," the words are almost sing-song, malicious glee bleeding through. "It's okay. I like it too," and Arkin can hear the smile without needing to see it. 

Somewhere along the way, Arkin had gotten the idea the Collector couldn't be as sadistic with his words. It wasn't an unreasonable assumption, when the most he'd ever heard out of him before was growling like some kind of thing instead of a person.

It isn't fair. He acted like a fucking animal every other time, it isn't fair for him to be able to dig into Arkin's weak points verbally too. 

The urge to say something, anything, besides just laying here and taking it is a physical weight on Arkin's tongue. But he's not sure if that would defeat the point or not, if it isn't exactly what the Collector is trying to goad from him. There's nothing Arkin wants more than leaving, but making sure the Collector wrings as little joy out of him as possible is next on the list.

(That's the only thing he'll have if he never does make it out of here. 

He doesn't let himself think about that.)

Arkin settles for one last "Fuck you," delivered into the wet mess still streaking his face. The blood tracked onto his mouth is tacky, and grimes his lips when he sets them. It isn't easy to breathe through his nose but that can be something else to focus on.

The Collector hums to himself without saying anything more. Arkin can't tell what that means. He's still holding Arkin down in a half choke, but the pressure stays the same without becoming punishing. 

He waits to do that differently.

The Collector shifts his weight further forward, pushing more of it onto Arkin in the process. It makes it that much easier for the Collector to force deeper into him, tearing an unhappy sound out of Arkin's throat. 

His teeth grind together with the effort of not making a sound with the Collector keeping up a steady pace, not particularly fast but each thrust ruthlessly hard and designed to get a reaction. It had been a long time since Arkin had been with anyone since he'd gotten divorced, but that's no excuse for how hard he is for the serial murderer fucking him. 

"You're so stubborn," The Collector huffs out in between shoving as deep into Arkin as he can get, breathless edges catching in his voice. "Maybe next time I'll use something to hold your mouth open so you can't hide from me. Doesn't that sound nice? And then it wouldn't be your fault either." 

He slips his hand around from Arkin's hip to run in a teasingly light caress up his cock at the same time Arkin can't help himself and opens his mouth to snarl something back. Instead, he ends up coming with an embarrassingly loud and open whine, stuttering as he realizes what's happening too late to stop. His hips chase into the contact, Collector obligingly stroking him through the aftershocks. 

The impossibility of the straps aren't enough to stop Arkin struggling, mortification and anger over the feeling that he just played into the Collector's hands overriding every other thought. If his fighting made the Collector furious earlier, now it's the opposite. The only reaction he has to Arkin's spitting and yanking on the bonds holding him is to speed up, crashing his body into Arkin's in uneven bursts before finally stilling. His weight is heavy, crushing air out of Arkin's heaving lungs while he fights to breathe and shout at the same time.

When the Collector pulls away, he doesn't have the decency to be put out. There's a pre-made syringe off to one side that he plucks up and plunges into Arkin's restrained right arm with ease that speaks of the many times he's done it before. The last thing Arkin sees before everything fades under drug-induced haziness is the smug smile tugging around the edges of his mask. 

He comes out of unconsciousness exactly where he would have expected: crammed inside the same box the Collector always stores him in, muscles and joints already settling into their usual soreness. It doesn't feel like he's been away for long. He must have used just as much of whatever drugs it took to keep Arkin pliant enough to stuff him back in without caring if he stayed out or not.

Arkin twists and works his body around in the small space into a slightly more comfortable position. The Collector won't be back for hours after having already played with him, and there's no use in Arkin wasting precious time he won't be disturbed by lying awake.

Next time. The words echo in Arkin's head.

It's the quiet anticipation lingering underneath it more than the memory of the Collector's voice that makes him start thrashing in the bounds of the trunk, sleep forgotten.


End file.
